


Divine Decadence

by properverse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hannibal really is a very gracious host, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Public Sex, canon-typical delicious-looking cannibalism, mostly Willana but Hannibal gets some of his too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/properverse/pseuds/properverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone who's anyone in Baltimore knows about Hannibal Lecter's famous dinner parties.  But it takes a special something for a person to get on the guest list for his more unconventional affairs.  Lucky Will.  He's just made the cut.  Come see how he reacts to a bal masqué where the guests are hungry for a bit more than food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between the 15:30- and 21:30-mark of Relevés. I am serious.
> 
> Also, I have not written a fanfic for public consumption in about 10 years. Wow, I am nervous.

And I understood the reason for the masks. As long as they could pretend not to recognize each other, everything was permitted. The other night, at the first ball, they'd merely carried on with their usual respectable habits but tonight, thanks to the false anonymity, they could give in to their baser instincts. While maintaining a certain distinction. They knew about good manners, after all!  
                                                                                                                             — News from Édouard, Michel Tremblay

"Are you ready to go in?"

They've been out on the porch in the cold spring air for nearly half an hour. Several times, groups and couples, their clothes hidden under long coats, have pushed past them and gone on into Hannibal's house, but Will is still waiting for the courage to join them. It may be dark here, and chilly, and the glimpses he's caught of Hannibal's entranceway may have revealed a wonderfully warm hall, alight with candles, but still, the porch feels...comfortable.

No doubt, Alana's uncharacteristic presence is partly responsible for that. After his clumsy advances—not to mention that heart-breakingly awkward conversation where she'd brought up his _instability_ —she'd gone back to avoiding him, or at least to making sure there was always a third party present whenever work required they be in the same room. But tonight, fate had arranged for them to arrive at Hannibal's house at precisely the same moment. Then, for whatever reason—Will isn't eager to look a gift horse in the mouth—Alana had seemed willing to parlay Will's off-the-cuff remark about being nervous into an entire conversation.

So here they sit, leaning against the railing on Hannibal's stoop. Will can't help but be aware that they're being careful not to let their legs touch for more than a second or two at a time, but their upper arms have been pressed together for quite a while.

It's not a scene _straight_ out of a dream, of course: they do both have on thick winter jackets, even if Will has unbuttoned his to give Alana a chance to evaluate his costume. Because as if the thought of having to confront a flock of strangers isn't enough, Hannibal's raised the stakes tonight by making his party a bal masqué, and Will is far from confident that his outfit will help him blend into the crowd. Alana tells him he looks lovely, but the reassurance feels hollow. It rattles around in his skull, occasionally colliding with the platitudes Hannibal had offered him, right after Will had reflexively and emphatically declined the initial invitation: he would very much like to have Will's presence at one of his parties, sooner or later; if Will is uncomfortable at a sit-down dinner party, a cocktail party with a buffet will be perfect since Will can come and go as he pleases and leave as early as he likes; and a masquerade, with, well, masks, will be the perfect fit for Will's neuroses. It seemed to have escaped Hannibal's notice that fancy dress was decidedly not Will Graham's speciality.

Still, he'd gone to visit a costume shop and had scraped something together, ending up with a sort of non-descript, vaguely Victorian, vaguely Elizabethan outfit that he's even managed to keep more-or-less unrumpled. It likely won't compare to the costumes of the other guests, nor to Alana's, but since her coat is still buttoned up tight and her hood is still drawn up, obscuring any hint of her chosen disguise, that particular moment of reckoning lies in the future.

For now, it's just the two of them, talking softly about some of Hannibal's past parties or their drives into Baltimore or their students or about how beautiful it is on Hannibal's porch with the moon glinting off a few remaining patches of snow...and then there's a heavy silence where Will tries to work up the courage to say that Alana, too, looks beautiful, when— 

"Are you ready to go in?"

Will bites back his words and replaces them with, "I guess I have to, sooner or later."

Alana reaches out and gives his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze that Will tries not to take vastly out of proportion. "I don't know what you're imagining, but I think you'll have a good time...if you want to. Hannibal's friends are polite to a fault. And he told you that you could leave whenever you wanted to, didn't he?"

Will swallows. That sounds familiar.

"You two have been talking about me."

Alana doesn't flinch. "Only enough to agree that an evening of fun will be good for you." She takes a step towards the front door and adds, smiling. "If you're feeling up to it." 

Will can't entirely conceive of ever feeling up to one of Hannibal's parties, but at least his temperature is back at 98.6 degrees and his head isn't aching, so he supposes now is as good a time as any. He opens the door and they both go inside.

* * *

There's nobody besides the two of them in the hallway when they first enter, but that fact only combines with the warmth of the blazing candelabra and the far-off strains of classical music to make the house all the more inviting to Will. He turns to give Alana a weak little smile: see, I crossed the threshold, and he's just begun removing his hat and gloves when Hannibal glides up to welcome them. His costume is magnificent, all black feathers and silk with flashes of gold and red lamé at the shoulders. But although the pops of colour vaguely call to mind the wing caps of a red-winged blackbird, Hannibal's appearance as a whole reminds Will of nothing so much as a huge, menacing raven. It's an ominous start to the evening, certainly, but Hannibal doesn't seem to notice the way Will has broken out in a cold sweat.

"Alana." Hannibal kisses her cheek. "Will." He clasps his hand while Will continues to gape. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind." 

Alana laughs. "He might have, but I coaxed him back into it."

Hannibal's mouth quirks into a small smile below his half-mask. "And I will have to thank you properly for that."

Something about Hannibal's tone suggests to Will a possibility, one that he's never even considered before, one that only makes Hannibal appear more ominous still. Without his complete consent, his mind spools back to the moment when he'd told Hannibal about kissing Alana. "She's very kissable," he'd said and Hannibal had...discouraged Will's fumblings, yes, and before that...a soft smile of acknowledgement. Oh. Will can feel himself flushing slightly as he glances back over at Alana and Hannibal. Hannibal, who is removing Alana's coat with an attitude of ease and familiarity that Will can't even imagine possessing. 

Will quickly busies himself with removing his own coat and digging his own half-mask out of his pocket, seized by the sudden masochistic urge to delay his first glance of Alana's costume. But eventually even he has to succumb to social niceties by glancing up from the floor, and when he finally takes in Alana's outfit, he regrets every second he wasted not doing so. She's wearing a skirt of blue satin, with a long train of iridescent peacock feathers tumbling down over her hips. Over the skirt is a corset fastened with a gold busk, and around her shoulders, she's wearing a bolero which supports a ruff made of still more feathers. Her hair, which she always seems to wear down, is bound into a tightly-braided updo adorned with seed pearls. Every inch of her costume shimmers in the candlelight and Will finds himself struck dumb. 

Hannibal gracefully fills the silence.

"You look _lovely_ , Dr. Bloom."

She does, certainly, and Will struggles for the courage to echo the sentiment, even if he's suddenly unsure the declaration would be appreciated, coming from him. But Hannibal isn't quite finished.

"And Will. I am so very glad you're here." Unobtrusively, he takes Will's coat from his hands and folds it over his own forearm.

At that moment, the door swings open and another group of guests tumbles in. Hannibal glances briefly over at the new arrivals.

"Alana, would it be too much to ask that you try to coax a glass of champagne into our friend Will? Given your established gift for persuasion where he is concerned." Another smile, and then Hannibal is off to greet the newcomers, leaving Will and Alana alone—sort of—again.

Alana's eyes follow Hannibal as he leaves, but despite that, Will swallows hard and just...says it. "You do. Look absolutely, maddeningly lovely." A beat, and then he can't help but modulate the declaration with a wisecrack. "And we know how much it takes to drive me mad."

But Alana just accepts the compliment. "Thank you, Will. You look very handsome." She grins and then succumbs to a wisecrack of her own. "Can't imagine why Hannibal didn't comment on it."

"Can't imagine," Will mutters and the two of them go down the hall towards the sounds of music and conversation. Just as they're about to cross the threshold into the drawing room, Will realizes: "You're not wearing a mask."

Alana seems to notice for the first time that Will _is_. She gives a little shrug and says, "Not everyone does. Usually only the people who don't want to be recognized."

Oh. Will clears his throat awkwardly and touches his mask, a generic Venetian-style thing he'd rented from the costume shop. "Should I wear this, then?"

"Only if you have something to hide."

Will laughs humourlessly but he keeps his mask on as the two of them slip into the drawing room.

Inside, everything is golden and glittering and bright. The space is filled with candles and a fire roars in the fireplace. Then, too, there are flowers everywhere, all in equally fiery shades of orange and yellow: tall vases full of birds of paradise sit on occasional tables and bouquets of etlingera and dahlias adorn the hearth. Arrangements of blood lily and bottle brush are set on the gold-draped sideboard where they fight for space with champagne flutes, with a cut crystal bowl full of punch and with a myriad of platters and plates which are overflowing with delicious-looking canapés.

It's a shock to Will's senses, definitely, but not enough of one that he's prevented from noticing the people in the room as well. They're an equally glittering bunch as they stand in groups, chatting and eating and laughing, and Hannibal's costume begins to seem far less eerie and theatrical as Will struggles to take in the abundance of lamé and satin and beading and lace dripping off of Hannibal's guests. Will's own lack of feathers suddenly seems quite gauche and almost quaintly mammalian. Luxury and excess are not really features of Will's native milieu, but despite himself, he can't help but feel drawn in by the warmth and glamour of the room.

He turns to Alana, gives her a small smile and gets a brilliant one of encouragement in return. His reservations about Hannibal fade into the background, and he starts to feel that this party might not be so bad after all, at least for a little while.

* * *

It is that bad.

Oh, things begin well enough. Alana and Will make their way over to the buffet table, and, scrupulous in her duties, Alana immediately presses a flute of champagne into Will's hand. She takes one for herself as well, and they both fix themselves plates. Will isn't entirely sure what he's putting on his but every bite he sneaks into his mouth is delicious. If that means he's eating something he may regret in the morning, well, ignorance is bliss and so is the thought of taking his and Alana's loaded plates over to the sofa so they can continue their murmured conversation from the balcony.

Unfortunately, as Will is carefully transferring a fragile tower of squab, pancetta and shallot from a serving dish, someone calls Alana's name. He and Alana both turn at the sound, and Alana's face brightens in recognition as a Pierrette in a dress of white, black and silver satin glides up to them. She treats Alana to a genuine smile of pleasure and then turns to Will, her expression becoming coquettish and—to Will's mind—hopelessly false. He manages a pained smile in return. For a moment, the woman looks perplexed, but then she shrugs her bare shoulders easily and focuses her attention solely on Alana. The two of them launch into conversation about a new exhibit at the BMA, and Will is immediately lost.

Of course, Alana hasn't entirely forgotten about him. A few minutes into the conversation, she holds up an apologetic hand and interrupts her companion to say, "I'll just be a moment, Will." But then a Pierrot joins his Pierrette, and a Marie Antoinette comes up and a Mark Antony and a Victorian gentleman who, like Will, is also wearing mask, but whose costume otherwise puts Will to shame...and soon Alana is enveloped in a thick cocoon of acquaintances. No, not acquaintances. Friends.

It's strange, for Will, to think about Alana (or any of his colleagues, really) having _friends_ outside the all-consuming world of the FBI. But while the thought of being in Alana's shoes, keeping up a conversation with a large crowd, is enough to chill Will to the bone, Alana looks utterly content, and she chatters away easily, looking far more relaxed than he's seen her in a long time.

Well, he's learning an awful lot about Alana tonight in this new habitat, isn't he. For a while, the novelty of the situation is actually enough to keep Will hovering nearby and eavesdropping. Eventually, though, around the time a few annoyed guests jostle him on their way to the buffet table, he realizes how ridiculous he looks and slinks away.

He takes his plate and his glass on into Hannibal's dining room, where another delicious-looking spread is set out on the table: little nibbles of steak tartare, soft-boiled egg and matchstick potatoes; canapés of oyster and salmon roe; platters of cheese surrounded by bunches of grapes...and of course, still more champagne. And here too, there are crowds of people surrounding the overflowing table, everyone laughing and flirting in a confusing whirl of fabrics and feathers. Without Alana by his side as a buffer, all the pageantry surrounding him—the bright colours; the sounds that don't quite form themselves into words; the darting hands stroking admiringly over fabrics and trims; the human shapes interacting, hugging and kissing—quickly becomes overwhelming. So after he's refilled his plate, he wedges himself into a corner where, at least, stimuli can only come at him from one direction. Even so, he keeps his eyes more or less fixed on his plate as he eats.

Every once in a while, though, his attention is drawn, for whatever reason, to a specific couple or a small group throughout the room. He sees one woman reach out to trace over the neckline of another woman's dress, and the recipient of the touch arches up into it, murmuring soft, amused, pleased noises. He sees a man's hand clasp onto a woman's arm, and the owner of that arm smiles and leans in towards her companion. Will remembers the feeling of Alana's bicep pressed against his out on the porch, and he thinks he might be able to relate to that. In fact, he's just on the verge of pushing himself away from the wall to go find (and hopefully rejoin) Alana when a woman dressed as a flapper walks past him. As she goes by, Will feels the unmistakeable touch of her fingers, brushing horizontally across first one of his thighs and then the other.

His body kicks into gear immediately: his face goes hot and his throat dry and his mouth opens in a needy little mewl...but it takes a moment for his brain to respond as well. When it finally comes online, he doesn't feel aroused. He feels angry, and the need on his face is quickly transmuted into a cold glare. The woman, who's stopped a few paces away and turned to look flirtatiously back over her shoulder at him, pales under his gaze. Then, like the Pierrette from earlier in the evening, she shrugs her shoulders and wanders away.

Will squeezes himself even more tightly into his corner and loses himself in his champagne, not looking up from the floor again until he's polished off the glass. Even then, when he does raise his head, it's only so he can consider the table in the middle of the room that holds the promise of more alcohol. But as he's weighing the pros and cons of a second glass (con: it might make it harder for him to drive home; pro: every other reason on earth), his spine starts prickling, and he has the strangest feeling that _someone_ is considering _him_. He raises his head a bit further and accidentally locks eyes with a man across the room, a man who—Will can tell—has been looking at him for quite some time. He's dressed as a cat, and he's tucked away in a corner too (which seems appropriate given his costume) but once he sees Will's noticed him, he pushes himself away from the wall and starts to cross the room towards him. In an instant, Will's changed his mind about that second glass of champagne. Instead, he just awkwardly discards his empty plate and glass on the table before slipping away into the hall.

He waits in the hallway for several minutes. Fortunately, the man doesn't follow him. Unfortunately, he shares his time in the hall with two women in stolae who are whispering sweet nothings to each other, completely oblivious to his presence. Their hands disappear periodically under the folds of each other's robes and Will tries not to watch. Eventually, the citizens drift off, arm-in-arm, for...elsewhere and Will decides it may well be time to leave. He pulls off his mask and rubs his fingertips hard over his temples where the string's been digging into his skin all night. As he's doing so, a couple rush past: she's dressed as a ballerina, he's a tin soldier with a full mask, and she has him on an improvised leash made from a pink silk ribbon; they disappear up the stairs at the end of the hall. Definitely time to leave.

First though, not unreluctantly, he goes to say his goodbyes to Alana. For a moment, as he makes his way to the drawing room, he lets his mind explore the possibility that he'll find her alone, maybe even bored. Maybe—his heart jumps a little—he'll invite her back to Wolf Trap, back to his own porch, so they can continue their conversation from earlier in the evening. But his hopes die when, upon arriving back at the sideboard, he finds only a few members of Alana's group of friends: the Pierrot and the Pierrette and the Victorian gentleman...and the Victorian is nuzzling at the Pierrette's neck, his arm draped around her. Will distinctly hears the soft sucking noise of mouth on skin followed by a quiet moan. The Pierrot has his own nose buried in the Victorian's hair. Alana is nowhere to be found.

Will suddenly feels annoyed. He wonders if Hannibal knows how his hospitality is being taken advantage of, if he, denouncer of all things rude and distasteful, realizes how his house is being _used_ tonight. He clears his throat harshly and, when the Pierrette looks up, he asks her—quite rude himself—if she knows where Alana's gone. It's only when she replies ("Oh, upstairs, of course. Where else?") that Will realizes he hasn't seen Hannibal once since he greeted him at the door. The implications of that hits him hard. Maybe...maybe Hannibal knows exactly what his guests are up to.

Will can feel his face flushing. He mumbles out some excuse to the Pierrette and then turns on his heel, going back out into the hall. No Hannibal. Trying to be casual about it, he looks into the den and then into the library. There's a string quartet playing in the corner and couples dancing in the center of the room, but no Hannibal. He even goes out onto the back patio, in case Hannibal's decided to use tonight to take up smoking. Nobody. Or rather, plenty of people, smoking cigarettes (and other things), cuddling together in the cold and breathing smoke into each other's mouths, but no Hannibal. Will shuffles back inside and, quite fruitlessly, checks the dining room again.

He knows he's going to have to go upstairs. He knows it and he's busy dreading it when he suddenly realizes what a true idiot he's been. Jack Crawford would have a thing or two to say about his behaviour tonight. Shaking his head slightly at himself, he goes through the dining room into—where else?—the kitchen.

Hannibal's there, of course.

He's very much not alone.

Well, after all, there is another buffet on the kitchen counter, this one evidently meant to serve up the dessert course as it boasts cakes and tarts and petit fours and glistening slices of fruit. So, predictably, that's attracted a small crowd.

But the food has been upstaged by the show taking place across the room from where Will stands in the doorway. Against the opposite wall, a lion and a tiger are practically devouring each other, the tiger growling, the lion moaning in pleasure. The front of the lion's costume is already ripped open and her bare breasts are only partially hidden by the thick golden fur of her mane.

And between them and Will sits Hannibal, calmly watching the show.

He's in a chair with his back to Will, but Will can still see there's someone on his lap: a slip of a boy, barely 18 or 19, who is sitting side-saddle on Hannibal's knee. At first, the only part of his costume that Will can see is the laurel wreaths in his hair and he wonders—for no good reason at all when there's so very much else to think about—if the boy is connected to the two women he'd seen in the hall. And then he remembers that the boy is _sitting on Hannibal's lap_. That they (and a half-dozen other guests) are all acting as voyeurs to the most pornographic show Will has ever seen in person. And, moreover, Will slowly becomes aware that even as all this is going on, two of Hannibal's long, elegant fingers are inside the boy's mouth. And that the reason he hadn't noticed the boy's costume is because he's naked to the waist, dressed in little more than a loincloth and sandals.

Will gasps without meaning to. Hannibal doesn't seem to hear, his attention occupied by the show and his little Roman slave, but the boy himself glances away from the big cats and looks over Hannibal's shoulder straight at Will. Will ducks his head, but not before the boy can give him a self-satisfied smile that's slightly cruel and very smug. Then, so slowly that Will doesn't think he'll be able to stand it, the boy begins bobbing his head over Hannibal's fingers. His lips brush against Hannibal's knuckles and then he draws back until he can play his tongue just over the very tips of Hannibal's index and third finger before taking them in again. In contrast to the room's main feature, it's very clear that this is a private show just for Will. Even Hannibal doesn't seem all that affected, his posture loose and easy, his only reaction to raise his other hand and stroke through the boy's hair. But the display works exquisitely on its intended target. A jolt of electricity shoots down Will's spine and he suddenly realizes he's very warm and very hard. The synthetic fabric of his cheap costume is clinging to the small of his back where he's broken out in a sweat. 

He stumbles back out into the dining room, away from those cats and that boy and the thought of Hannibal's fingers inside him.

Of course, it wouldn't be a party if he didn't back right into Alana as he tries to make his escape. She catches him before he manages to completely trip over her feet and he turns and looks at her, wide-eyed. She looks even more breathtaking than she did earlier. Her hair has been released from its braids and has formed a cloud of curls around her head, and her bolero (and, by extension, her feathered ruff) is missing, revealing a stretch of smooth skin above her corset. 

"There you are. I've been looking for you," she says. She sounds genuinely pleased to see him, but Will knows that can't be right, not after the night he suspects she's had. 

He feels his back muscles tense up before he finally mumbles, "Have you." He realizes, dispassionately, that his voice sounds ice cold and he tells himself to stop it but he's only barely holding himself upright as it is. Social niceties require a level of coherence he just does not have access to at the moment.

Thankfully, Alana chooses to ignore his tone. "Mmhm. Have you been having a good time?"

"No."

That level of blunt negativity does get Alana's brow wrinkling in concern, but she doesn't respond, not right away. It dawns on Will that, despite her calm façade, she's actually in no more shape to speak than he is. One of her bare shoulders sports a string of bite marks that makes it hard for him to think. Still, he tries to get some words out, though he can't keep the sharp edge off his voice.

"You knew what kind of party this was, didn't you."

Alana tilts her head. "Didn't _you_?"

Will laughs acerbically. "Dr. Lecter didn't see fit to include that piece of information on the embossed invitation. So no." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flapper who'd tried to feel him up earlier. Now, her hand is hidden down the front of the unbuttoned breeches of another guest in a powdered white wig whose heavy breathing Will can hear from across the room.

He curls his lip into a sneer even as his skin prickles at the remembered feel of the woman's hand. "If I'd known clothing was apparently optional, I wouldn't have spent money renting this outfit." He paws helplessly at his own ridiculous, frilly shirt.

Alana reaches out and touches his wrist. Her intention is to still him, and it works. He freezes under her touch.

"It's not exactly the kind of thing Hannibal usually mentions on the invitation." She smiles slightly, and Will can't help but wonder how—and when—Hannibal first mentioned this kind of thing to her. 

He grits his teeth. "I guess I missed a dropped hint somewhere."

"I'm sorry, Will. It never even occurred to me that you were going into the night blind. When you wandered off, I thought..."

Will barks out another laugh. So she'd thought he'd gone off in search of a little action of his own?

"Do I seem like the type?" he asks, dripping sarcasm.

"Honestly..." Alana sighs. "No. But Hannibal usually has a pretty good nose for these kinds of things. When I found out you were coming, I figured I'd misjudged you."

"'When you found out I was coming.' And now?"

Alana releases his wrist and moves her hand to squeeze his upper arm. "I don't think any less of you, if you're not having a good time."

Will hesitates for a long moment and then blurts out, "Dr. Lecter is in the kitchen. There's an 18-year-old-boy sitting on his lap. Fellating his fingers." How, he implies, does Alana expect him to have a good time amidst all this?

But Alana doesn't even seem particularly shocked, which is actually quite unsettling. Instead, she laughs and asks, "How does that make you feel?"

He knows she's teasing him, falling back on an old cliché, spoken rhetorically, in an attempt to ease the tension hanging between them. And yet...and yet, quietly, he answers. "Uncomfortable. Confused. Feverish." Even remembering the scene, his cock stirs in his trousers.

Alana touches her hand to his forehead and Will's eyes slip closed despite himself. Her hand moves down to cup his cheek and then rests there for several torturous seconds before falling away.

"You do feel warm," she murmurs.

A small spike of panic runs through him and his eyes fly back open. "I'm fine. I'm taking my antibiotics. I'm fine. I didn't mean..." And then, so quietly, "Please don't stop..."

He can see her hesitating, vacillating, her eyes darting away from his.

Will slips his hand around her waist and draws her in closer, close enough so that he can bury his head against her neck and whisper to her, "I'm feeling better now. The antibiotics are doing what they're supposed to be doing and I'm feeling _better_. S-stable."

He can feel Alana wince as he says that word, but they both know it needed to be said. She pulls back slightly from him so that she can look up at his face, and he resists the instinctive impulse to look away.

"I suppose..." Alana says finally, with a soft sigh, "I suppose I wouldn't characterize this as 'intimate,' anyway... There's a couple behind you having sex on the dining room table."

That startles him, and he spins around to see if she's telling the truth. She very much is. The table isn't quite so full now that most of the guests have eaten their fill and the flapper has found room to sprawl out on it on her back so that she and her anachronistic beau can screw. For a moment, Will stands, dumbstruck, unable to look away. He can hear Alana laughing, and then she tucks herself up behind him, her torso flush against his back.

"It's rude to stare," she whispers into his ear. She pauses for a moment and then adds, "We wouldn't want other people staring at us, would we?"

Will's heart skips a beat. "Staring at us doing _what_ , exactly?" he asks cautiously, and then he doesn't really need an answer, because Alana's wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing the side of his neck.

After everything that's already happened this evening, that's more than enough to get Will worked up all over again. He swallows and tries to remind himself that they're in public, but that argument becomes less and less persuasive as Alana continues pressing dry kisses to his neck, as her hand strokes cautiously over his hipbone through his trousers.

He lets out a soft little groan and drops his head back against Alana's shoulder. He can feel her smile against his skin before she sucks a patch of it into her mouth, her teeth pressing down ever so slightly. He gasps.

"We're going to make a spectacle of ourselves," he says softly.

"We're not even the most interesting sight in this room, let alone this house."

The flapper and her partner are still fucking on the dining room table, both of them moaning loudly, obviously unconcerned with whoever may be overhearing them. And now, another couple has succumbed as well: on one of the dining room chairs, a dove is straddling the lap of a fox, riding her hard.

Will shivers and looks away from the entire scene, turning around to face Alana. She looks back at him, and her tongue darts out over her lips. Before he can think better of it, Will leans in and kisses her. He's tentative about it at first, just waiting for the now-familiar feeling of her pulling away, but she doesn't. Instead, she returns the caress, kisses back, her tongue flicking softly against his lips until he parts them for her. When her tongue plays over his, inside his mouth, he tastes the champagne they've both been drinking.

They kiss for a long while, though certain events do mark the passing of time: the moment when Alana brings her hands up and buries them in his hair, tugging ever so slightly; the moment when someone bumps into them, accidentally, and Will takes the opportunity to guide Alana backwards, away from the busy center of the room, until she's pressed up against the wall; the moment when Will cups Alana's jawbone with his left hand and—taking his lead from the way she'd treated his neck—nips ever so gently at her lower lip; and the moment immediately after that, when she gasps sharply and arches forward against him, her body grinding up against his...but mostly, there's just the time when he's kissing Alana and then, suddenly, sadly, the time when she pulls back and he isn't anymore.

Once they're separated, Will pants slightly, catching his breath. He tries to look into Alana's face, to see how this is affecting her, but his eyes skitter away without his permission when he tries. Finally, she catches him under the chin with the tip of her index finger and tilts his head so their eyes meet. She's smiling. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's panting too, which may (he hopes) explain why she ended the kiss. Her hair isn't, strictly speaking, any messier than it was before, but he can't resist smoothing it back off her forehead.

"God, Will..." she murmurs. She trails off into silence and Will waits for her to speak for a long time, his heart pounding in his chest. In the end, his voice thick with lust and—ever so slightly—with trepidation, he asks, "Not regretting anything yet, I hope?"

She shakes her head.

Well, that's a start. His eyes start to cast about again as he gropes for something to say next until his glance falls on the marks on her shoulder. "What about these?" He brushes his fingers over the bruises. "Do you regret these?"

Alana gives him a strange look. "No. Why should I?"

Will clears his throat, brought up short by that. "Who...who are they from?" he asks.

"Discretion is the better part of valour, don't you think?" Alana says, her face relaxing back into a smile.

"Discretion doesn't seem all that important at this sort of party."

"Discretion is of the utmost importance, especially at this sort of party," Alana replies. She rubs the pad of her index finger over his lips, back and forth, almost as though she were hushing him, and Will's eyes slip closed.

It's hard to keep track of the thread of the conversation, let alone push it forward, with Alana touching his mouth, but he does his best. "You seem to know a lot about these sorts of parties, " he mutters.

"I may have been to one or two of them before..."

"'One or two?'"

Alana hesitates. "Eight."

"Eight...Always here?"

"Yes."

"And," Will asks, a touch of sarcasm edging into his voice, "At these parties...Are you always so _reckless_?" He opens his eyes again and licks his own lips, his tongue brushing over Alana's fingers.

Alana smiles. "Sometimes. But I haven't regretted anything."

Will's eyes fall to the line of bruises again. It's impossible not to wonder where they came from. It could even be, he realizes, that they're not from this evening at all, but he doesn't think that's the case. It's only too easy to picture Alana upstairs at a party just like this, maybe even in Hannibal's master bedroom (which he's never seen, but which is likewise easy to picture: bookshelves; an imposing four poster bed with luxurious bedclothes; dark wood furniture). He can see her spread out on her back on the bed, moaning in pleasure while someone—a man? a woman? Hannibal?—pulls at her skin with their lips and teeth. And then, of course, it's not just _someone_ in his mental image, but he himself—his fingers, his cock, his teeth—buried inside her while she moans and sobs in ecstasy.

With a strong shudder of pleasure, he comes back to himself in Hannibal's dining room. He's broken out in a sweat and god, he's so fucking hard, and Alana's looking up at him, and for a moment he worries he's ruined everything, but she doesn't seem to have noticed that he's gone on ahead without her.

"God," he groans softly, "I want..." and then he drops his head down to fasten his mouth over one of the marks on her shoulder, sucking hard. He's prepared—more or less—to stop if Alana objects, but even though she flinches slightly when his teeth first make contact with her skin, the flinch is accompanied by a soft moan...and the immediate flight of a hand up into his hair to hold him firmly in place. Within a few seconds, it becomes abundantly clear that she is very fond of whatever he is doing to her. He can hear her moaning, her breath hitching in soft sobs of delight, just like in his fantasy. So he makes his way over her entire shoulder, covering each mark of mysterious provenance with a fresh one of his own, licking and biting until Alana's hips are bucking rhythmically against his, until she's whispering his name and tugging at his hair. Every time her hips thrust forward, she grinds against his cock and between that and the lingering effects of his fantasy, he's starting to get scared of coming in his prissy rented pants. All the same, when Alana springs open two or three of the fasteners on the front of her corset, Will doesn't let his fear keep him from nuzzling his way inside.

He does glance nervously, just once, over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a dozen people looking back, watching them. But while a small assembly has gathered to observe the antics of the fox and the dove, that only works in Will's favour, since the spectators' backs are all turned to him. So, all the more eager for the delay, he lowers his head and finds his way to one of Alana's nipples and sucks it into his mouth, not sparing her the occasional scrape of his teeth. She whispers, hoarse and desperate, for him to keep going, for him to go harder, and he bites down on the erect little nub in his mouth, harder than he thinks she should be able to stand, but she just arcs her whole body forward with a gasp of pure desire. She fumbles for his arm, locks her fingers around his wrist and leads his hand to the folds of her skirt where she cups his palm up between her legs. Once she's satisfied with how he's positioned, she buries both her hands back in his hair.

Will pulls in a slow, deep breath around Alana's nipple. He can feel his fingers trembling against the satin of her skirt—or, to be blunt about it—against her pussy, and it's hard to believe this isn't a dream. He switches his mouth over to her other breast and sucks that nipple into his mouth as he begins stroking his fingertips against Alana's body.

Only...suddenly, just as he's starting to find his footing, he realizes that there aren't two hands in his hair anymore, but three, and he stops everything he's doing to wrench his head up in panic.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says. "Are you having a good time?"

Will takes a few shaky steps backwards, even as he slowly becomes aware of the fact that Alana doesn't seem upset in the slightest, despite how her breasts are half-bared and her nipples are exposed (and wet and swollen in a way that makes Will's head swim) and despite how Hannibal is just standing there, looking down at them both. Oh, she seems restless, yes, her weight shifting back and forth between one leg and the other...but not upset. All the same, as soon as his initial panic subsides, Will rushes back in towards Alana, his only thought to get her corset done back up as quickly as possible. The moment he touches his fingers to the first metal fastener, though, Alana touches her hand to his and stops him.

"It's all right, Will," she says.

He doesn't understand, exactly, how it can be all right, and he looks up at Alana, his mouth half-open in childlike agitation. Almost as though to underscore her point, she presses a soft, reassuring kiss to the corner of his mouth and then...then she pulls away and tilts her head back ever so slightly, the signal virtually unmistakeable: Hannibal removes his mask, leans in and kisses her himself.

Will's mouth gapes open even wider, and he lets out a soft, forlorn sound, not understanding at all what's going on. All the same, he can't deny how very _beautiful_ they look together. And he can't help but notice a thousand details: the look of bliss on Alana's face; the way her tongue tangles with Hannibal's; the way Hannibal's thumb is rubbing back and forth against the pulse point just under her earlobe...

Will whines again, helplessly, and Alana reaches out to find and stroke his cheek, all without breaking her kiss with Hannibal. It occurs to him that he ought to feel like a fool right now, oughtn't he, but instead, again, he just feels uncomfortable and confused and very, very warm.

Finally, Hannibal and Alana break apart. Will struggles for the right words to use to ask Alana if she just wants him to leave. But before he can say anything, Hannibal turns to him and—à propos of nothing, it seems—kisses him too.

It's a brief, close-mouthed kiss, not at all like the one shared by Hannibal and Alana, but it leaves Will slightly shell-shocked all the same. The aloofness of the gesture makes him wonder if Hannibal has kissed him just to be polite...or if he's ended the kiss so promptly just to be so. He darts his tongue nervously out over his lips, tastes red wine, feels his legs go weak.

Still unable to find words, Will looks up at Alana for guidance. She smiles at him, starry-eyed, and asks, "Are _you_ regretting anything, Will?"

His eyes flick from Alana to Hannibal, then back to Alana and back to Hannibal again. Slowly, he shakes his head. Alana's smile grows wider and, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hannibal smiling too, in a way that makes his body run hot and cold. He ducks his head away from Hannibal, finding it much more preferable to occupy himself by rubbing his cheek and lips against Alana's hand.

"We don't have to stop," Alana murmurs to him.

"No. I guess we don't," he says dryly, pressing a kiss to Alana's palm. It's taking him a while, but he's slowly learning the rules of whatever surreal game is taking place at this party, and apparently, tonight, it's well within the bounds of propriety for Will to go back to kissing Alana, even for his fingers to go back to plucking at her bared nipples, all while Hannibal looks on.

So he doesn't stop. With a soft, helpless sob, Will gives himself up to it and leans in and devours Alana's mouth, letting her wrap her arms and even one leg around his body as he takes her nipples and pinches them hard, tugs them, rolls them between his fingers. It's not long at all before both of them are back on the edge, moaning and whimpering into each other's mouths, and while Hannibal's body doesn't exactly evince any arousal, Will can sense that he hasn't looked away, not once. So he's not quite as startled, this time, when Hannibal touches his hair, strokes a hand through it, and then leans in and whispers that he thinks it's time Will saw to Alana properly. Then there's a touch of pressure on Will's shoulder, and he knows what Hannibal is hinting at.

"F-fuck..." he groans softly, breaking his kiss with Alana. Half in reply to Hannibal, half in reply to the wordless, confused whimper Alana lets out when he pulls away, he pants out, "Just...just give me a second." He knows he has to calm down, at least a little, if he wants to get through this, but calming down doesn't exactly seem to be in the cards, not when Hannibal's taken it upon himself to instruct Alana as well. Will watches Hannibal touch his lips to the shell of her ear and then he hears him say, "If you would like Will to eat your cunt, we'll have to get some of this skirt out of the way." And then the two of them begin pulling the material aside, Alana's contribution mostly the same sort of helpless pawing Will could see himself doing, while Hannibal, much calmer, methodically folds the skirt up to reveal black stockings, a garter belt, and a pair of bottle green underwear that makes Will's mouth water and his knees go weak.

He lets himself tumble down to the floor, and he just rests there, panting softly, as Hannibal continues getting Alana arranged. He tucks the folded material of her skirt into her own hands and then crouches down next to Will to help Alana step out of her underwear. She does so, her own legs wobbling, and Will unconsciously digs his fingers hard into Hannibal's conveniently-positioned arm as he watches. As soon as he realizes what he's doing, he pulls his hand away, mumbles out a quick apology, but Hannibal only strokes his head again as he rises back to his feet and settles in next to Alana. Then Hannibal slips his arm around Alana's waist and settles his lips against her hairline, in such a way that they're both still free to look down at him. It's one of the most intimidating things Will's ever experienced, even if Alana looks far from imposing, leaning hard on Hannibal's arm, barely able to support her own weight. Will knows they're going to start kissing again as soon as his mouth is occupied and that thought makes him moan and lunge forward to press his lips between Alana's legs, so eager for it all.

He starts off just by indulging himself, bracing his hands on her hips as he laps the flat of his tongue over her hole again and again simply to drink in the sharp, musky taste of her. It's only once he's had his fill (or not his _fill_ exactly, but at least once he's committed the taste to memory) that he turns his attention to her clit, kissing it, licking it, wrapping his lips around it. Almost as soon as he does, he can feel her coming, her muscles bursting into a flurry of contractions against his tongue, although any noises she might be making are swallowed up into the kisses he knows she's sharing with Hannibal. He's about to pull away, half-disappointed that this is all over, when Alana arches her hips forward insistently against his mouth and that's all the encouragement he needs to continue.

He keeps his attention focused on her clit at first, since she's reacted so well to that already, pressing a firm kiss to the hood and then flicking the tip of his tongue up along the underside. She squirms against his mouth, but it's clear she needs more. So he slides one hand down from her hip and rubs his knuckle over her hole, back and forth, teasing her a little, not pressing inside. Only...she doesn't seem to like that at all, because the next thing Will knows, her hand is back in his hair and she's tugging his head _hard_ against her body, pulling him in so close he can barely breath. He takes the hint and immediately presses first one finger and then two inside her.

She doesn't release his hair—not when he starts fucking her roughly with those fingers, not even when he lashes his tongue over her clit so rapidly that his jaw starts to hurt—but he doesn't need her to. The way Alana is taking her pleasure from his hands and mouth has got him so turned on he can barely stand it; he's been pressing the heel of his free hand down against his cock every now and then to try to allay the ache, all to more or less no avail. So when something solid nudges its way between his legs and presses up against his erection, he doesn't even stop to think or question what it is or why it's there. He just presses himself right back against it and starts to ride it while he eats Alana's cunt.

He tells himself (if there's really any self left to tell) that he'll stop, stop hitching his hips forward and rubbing himself off soon, after five seconds or ten, but every time he tries, Alana—who apparently is no longer kissing Hannibal, not that she'll let him raise his head from her clit for even a moment to see—moans or shudders a way that sends sparks of arousal down his spine and he can't think of anything but making her come and getting off himself.

He redoubles his efforts, curling his fingers inside her and sucking and lapping at her clit until, finally, he feels her grip grow brutally tight in his hair, her cunt clenching hard around his fingers as she comes against his mouth. With a loud groan, he jerks his hips forward a few more times and then he's coming too, the pleasure of it so intense it's almost unbearable.

When his head clears at last, details filter back in in strange order. There's Alana's tired smile first, which is lovely. And then Hannibal's, which is all right too. And then he notices the distinct hush in the room and he realizes, heart sinking, that the flapper and the fox can't possibly be the room's center of attention anymore. Slightly nauseated, he closes his eyes and rests his flushed cheek against Hannibal's leg for a moment...and then he jerks backwards with a start, because, Jesus, he's just gotten himself off against Hannibal's leg like a dog in heat. He's rubbed himself off against Hannibal's leg and shoe in front of a crowd of people, in front of _Alana_.

He can feel himself starting to shake. With some effort, he gets to his feet (shuddering at the feeling of his now-wet, sticky underwear shifting over his skin) and, head lowered, gets out of the dining room as fast as he can, ignoring the sound of Alana calling after him. He scrambles towards the entranceway, his first thought to head for his car so that he can just go home and try to forget this night ever happened. As he's tearing through the hall closet looking for his coat, though, he feels Hannibal's hand on his shoulder.

"Come upstairs. I'll get you some clean clothes," he says.

Will wants to shrug his hand away—violently shrug his hand away—and just _get home_ but he's already having to grit his teeth to cope with the feeling of the mess in his pants, and the drive home is a long one. So, with a soft sigh, he gives himself over to Hannibal and lets himself be led upstairs. They pass far, far too many people in the hallway and on the stairs, and Will can feel glances of curiosity and interest being shot his way (though he's unsure if it's because of the state of his costume, or if his reputation precedes him, now, or if it's simply because Hannibal is accompanying him). There are, thankfully, fewer people on the second floor, and as they pass closed door after closed door, Will realizes why: people aren't going to congregate on the landing here when they could easily slip into a guest bedroom or an office and close and lock the door. It occurs to him to wonder, almost bitterly, why he and Alana didn't do that.

Hannibal stops in front of one of the doors, removes a key ring from his pocket and unlocks it, letting Will shuffle inside one room in the house that's obviously been kept back from the guests. The room looks more-or-less the way Will imagined it looking—or at least, since Will can't bear to lift his head, the bed skirts look the way he'd imagined; and the thick, plush carpet; and the feet of the furniture, elaborately carved out of dark wood.

Hannibal flips on the light and closes the door behind the two of them before crossing the room to his dresser. He opens a drawer, pulls out a few articles of clothing and then returns to Will, who's still standing frozen near the door.

"I can get you something more appropriate for the drive home, if you'd like. Or for the party, for that matter. But I thought you might be more comfortable staying up here," he says, handing a stack of clothing over to Will: crisp cotton pajamas; a robe and, damningly, a fresh pair of boxers. Will can feel himself flushing, but Hannibal—politely—doesn't belabour the point. He directs Will towards the master bathroom and Will skitters inside to clean himself up and change, trying not to look in the large mirror covering the entire wall over the sink as he does so. He does his best to wash up the mess in his pants and then leaves his clothes draped over the edge of the tub.

When he pads back out into the bedroom, he finds Hannibal sitting on the bed. With his eyes still cast down, Will notices right away that Hannibal has changed his own trousers...because, of course, Will _got himself off on his leg_. Fuck. He scrubs his hands over his face and then hazards a glance up at Hannibal.

"I got carried away."

Hannibal nods. "You did." It's a neutral statement with no touch of judgement, but still Will looks back down at the carpet.

"I'm sorry. I'll...I'll pay to get your clothes dry-cleaned." It's an absolutely inane statement and he knows it. He can hear Hannibal laugh, ever so softly.

"That will hardly be necessary, Will." Hannibal gets to his feet and pulls the covers on the bed down. "Why don't you get some rest, for now. I should go back downstairs."

Even though he's already accepted Hannibal's pajamas and this is only the natural next step, Will shakes his head. "Where will you sleep?"

"I doubt I'll be getting to bed until after you're awake and back home."

The mention of home reminds Will of something. He shakes his head again. "I can't stay here. I didn't bring my antibiotics." The flashing light of a digital clock on Hannibal's bedside catches his eye and he realizes he's already late for his next dose—he hadn't anticipated staying at the party for more than a few hours, let alone all night.

"You're progressing well enough that one missed dose won't hurt you."

Of course, it won't be one missed dose, but two—possibly three, depending on when he gets back to Wolf Trap—but when Hannibal's firm hand finds the small of Will's back, Will lets himself be led into bed. Hannibal smoothes the covers up over him as though he were tucking in a small child.

"Should I send Alana Bloom up to join you?" Hannibal asks, his voice, again, perfectly neutral.

Will buries his head in the pillow. "No. No, don't do that."

"All right."

Will keeps his face hidden against the bedding as he listens to Hannibal cross back to the door and flip off the overhead light. Then he hears the door open and shut and the key turn in the lock. He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Yes, I know, undoing a corset like that warps the boning. Work with me here.  
> 2) Alana's dress was inspired by <http://naboo-girl.deviantart.com/art/Trail-of-a-Peacock-33074963>. I took some liberties with the top.  
> 3) Canapés were roughly inspired by <http://www.archiesfood.com/canapes.html> and <http://simonfoodfavourites.blogspot.ca/2009/11/skalli-paris-australian-launch-event.html> though I'm sure Hannibal's were better.


End file.
